


The Explosion's Aftermath

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [8]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, MJ steps up, PTSD, Shock, Whump, after the bomb, home scenes, peter is unconscious, shameless whump really, warning for terrorist attack in NYC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 03:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17459960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: Peter's unconscious. People are panicking. And for once, MJ doesn't know what to do.Set in 2018 game, filling in the gaps after the bomb explodes at City Hall. :) Whump and guilt and angst abound!





	The Explosion's Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [createandconstruct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/createandconstruct/gifts).



> NOTE: I took some liberties with how the game portrays this scene. Mostly because MJ's hysterical screaming didn't really do much for me, and I doubt they'd have stuck around long after Miles left. >.> So if anything's not quite canon, that's my fault! :P 
> 
> This fic's dedicated to createandconstruct for her super awesome review on my last fic!! But BIG THANKS to *everyone* who read and left kudos! You guys rock my world!

Turns out, the silence after an explosion can be pretty loud.

It rings in MJ's mind, echoing her panic as Peter slumps over her. His eyes are closed— _when did they close?_ —and something warm seeps through her jeans. That should be important, but MJ can’t think past the silence, because she's yelling his name and shaking his shoulders and he's silent as the grave— _no, not Peter—_ and what if he is saying something and she just  _can't hear_? 

Around them, people are screaming. It’s obvious, because MJ’s screaming too. Which is ridiculous, some distant part of her brain snaps. She wants to be a warzone reporter someday. She's been mentally preparing for this kind of chaos.

But she wasn’t prepared for it to happen midday in front of City Hall.

Her ears are still ringing, a hushed, eerie soundtrack to the silence. Like those action movies, where people swarm in every direction and there’s blood and shrapnel carpeting the asphalt, and then, _then_ , noise starts to eek back into the world, and for a moment it's shocking relief, right until the sound that  _does_ register is sirens and shouting and crying and moaning and—wow, she never thought she'd miss that excruciatingly loud silence. 

“Peter,” she says, distant and scared. That shouldn't be her voice. Even though her heart’s thumping and her hands are shaking so hard she can barely move him, MJ knows how to keep a steady tone. How to hide fear. She says it again, mostly for herself, as she crouches over his still form. “Peter!”

He’s the quietest thing here.

Her choked sob is lost in the cacophony of panic.

 

* * *

 

She drags him away.

Her initial thought is to stay put, slap his face, shake his shoulders, beg and plead until he opens his eyes and realizes what happened and takes charge. To be clear, she doesn’t need him to take charge. But everyone around them? They need a hero. They need Spider-Man. New York's eye of the storm, the brief moment of calm and relief, brightening the darkness with stupid quips and placating reassurances as he whisks innocents out of danger.

And if he wakes up and does the hero thing, well, that makes _MJ_  the person, the partner, helping Spider-Man from the ground. She loves being that person. Loves it far more than the trembling, panicked mess she is right now, gripping Peter’s slack face and realizing that he might not wake up fast.

Or at all. 

MJ clenches her eyes shut and thinks about staying put. But around them, people are screaming and running and damn, it’s hard to ignore that crowd mentality. Already, her heart thrums faster, her mind clouding with terror, swept in the ancient caveman sense of _danger, danger!! Run while you still can!!!_

So she hooks her arms under Peter's and drags him as far and fast as she can. And it’s a damn good thing she does, because they just barely clear the emptying square, delving into the protective cover of a side street, before another bomb goes off.

Or are they people, bright and white and exploding the way no human should? She can't tell; it happens so fast.

Renewed screams, and then—the buildings start to collapse. It might be the worst sound MJ’s ever heard. The _bang_ , the ringing in her ears, the soft undercurrent of groaning concrete. The world is going to hell around them, and maybe today's the day she dies after all. 

MJ nearly sobs, pulling Peter further, faster, desperate and hysterical.

She wanted to be warzone reporter. Cool, calm, collected, the voice of reason in the face of battle.

She’s not that person yet.

But some dark part of her realizes that this moment, right here? The terror of Peter’s still form under her shaking muscles, the painful squeeze of her heart whenever she looks at his ashen face, the hot blood dripping onto her jeans, staining the pavement while the world crumbles around them?

 _This_ will be the terrible thing she recalls when interviewing mothers who lost children, soldiers who lost brethren, rebels who lost homes.

 _This_ defines everything she will become, later.

And MJ wishes she isn't here to see it.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter wakes up, finally.

It’s a slow process. They’re not far enough away from the chaos, not yet, but MJ physically can’t drag him any further, and first responders are starting to arrive, starting to engage with the survivors. (Oh, god. Survivors. People died just a few feet away, lives snuffed in an instant, swallowed in the following chaos. Maybe MJ would have died too, if it weren't for Peter. The thought threatens to unravel her, so she clamps down on it, forces herself to focus on the here and now.)

(It's equally terrifying.)

The first responders should be a comfort, really, considering Peter's state. But even though his breathing is shallow and fast, even though his heartbeat is irregular under her shaking hands, she _knows_ the EMTs can’t get anywhere near him. They’ve been through this before, and Peter made it perfectly clear: no one else can know about his healing abilities.

It’d just take one perplexed doctor to watch a wound stitch itself closed in minutes instead of days. Just one nosy nurse to realize Peter is enhanced, somehow, and start asking questions. Maybe they don’t match him to Spider-Man right away, but… when they take him off the streets, force him into medical testing or something, someone will.

It’s too big of a risk, even with Peter in this condition.

So MJ shakes his shoulders with a vigor, and the world narrows as he groans, clenching his eyes in pain.

But he _moved_. It's a start.

“Peter,” MJ begs, leaning right into his face. “You have to wake up. Please wake up!”

Her cheeks are wet, dripping, and she has no idea when she started crying. But she is, fat drops falling on Peter’s dirt-smeared forehead. She resorts to begging, pleading like so many others are doing with their loved ones.

Their dead loved ones. 

MJ chokes past her words. “Wake up, Pete. Come on, Tiger.”

That’s what gets him. That stupid nickname from all those years ago, the one that made him flush in such obvious embarrassment that she can’t _not_ bring it upon a regular basis now.

“MJ?” he moans, forcing his eyes open.

God, she’s never seen anything so beautiful.

She takes his face and plants a swift, passionate kiss on his lips.

When she pulls back, he’s too stunned to speak. Or maybe that’s the blood loss. MJ laughs, hysterical, and pulls him into a sitting position. Something is happening in the square, more shouts and explosions, but it’s the EMT running in their direction that sends her heart into her throat.

“Can you stand?” she asks Peter. 

“Y-Yeah,” he responds, before he really even has time to take stock. His face is pale, pinched in pain, his breathing more ragged than she's heard in a long time. He’s not okay.

For a moment, that realization knocks her off-balance. She actually sways, gripping his arm to ground her floating mind as she imagines all the worst-case scenarios. He's survived worse, she knows, but—god, he's so pale. So... out of it. What if the explosions aren't the worst part of today?  

"MJ?" Peter whispers, because she's gone completely still, frozen. 

His vulnerable tone knocks her out of it. He's disoriented and hurt and in that breath, he trusts her to handle this. He  _trusts_ her, and that's all she ever wanted in this kind of moment. Now isn’t the time for scared, terrorist-threatened MJ. Now’s the time for Nurse MJ, calm and authoritative, unbridled by fear.

Okay. She can do this. She  _has_ to do this. 

Swiftly, she hauls his arm over her shoulder and pulls him to his feet. Peter gasps, the blood draining from his skin, but she steadies him and whispers, “Easy, easy.”

The EMT is only a few feet away. If the guy looks too closely at Peter, he’ll know something’s wrong, so MJ doesn’t let him look. She just tightens her fingers on Peter’s wrist, a warning to stay silent, and affixes an expression of panic on her face. (Which, realistically, doesn’t take much effort.)

 “O-Over there,” she whimpers, pointing a finger towards the epicenter of the crisis. “This kid—he was really hurt, but he ran after his mom. I think she needs help—” She’s rambling, the perfect picture of a shell-shocked bystander.

And it works. Of course it works. 

The EMT nods firmly and shouts, “Ambulances are inbound! Keep moving,” before dashing in the direction she pointed.

"Smart," Peter says, but the word is garbled, distant.

Nothing about sending medical help away seems smart, just then, but MJ's too tired to argue. "Agree to disagree," she mutters as she tows Peter in the exact opposite direction of the EMT and the ambulances, straight into a darkened alley and out of sight. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Four blocks. That’s all they manage before Peter's breath hitches and he gasps, “MJ—” and his eyes slide back into his skull. His sudden, dead weight is so abrupt that even MJ can't stop them from crashing to the unforgiving concrete. She forced him through back alleys instead of main roads, and police have damn near cleared the city block, but suddenly, the solitude isn't as comforting as it was a few minutes ago. No amount of begging or threatening opens Peter's eyes.

In a bustling city of several million, MJ has never felt so alone.

She’s starting to shake in earnest, fierce tremors that chatter her teeth and palpitate her heart. An icy chill settles over her, despite the mild weather, as she feels Peter’s pale face, presses trembling fingers against his neck.

His pulse is threadbare, now.

“Oh god,” MJ breathes. Leaving the EMT was such a mistake, one solidlyon her, now. If Peter dies, it's  _her_ fault, and that's more than she can bear. 

She doesn't understand. Where was he hurt? She’d seen the blood; it's all over her jeans, her boots, her mind. But she didn't think to ask him about it. Her only thought, stumbling through the emptying streets, was _get Peter home_.

She never let herself think about what'd happen if they didn’t make it.

Now she lifts his shirt, skims his rigid muscles with a desperate gaze. But... nothing. His skin is bruised, sure, but smooth. Maybe it wasn’t his blood?

And then the series of events, before, snap into terrifying focus. The seconds before the bomb, when Peter winced and spun not towards the stage, but the surrounding audience. When he left MJ, just for a moment, to make his way towards the outskirts of the crowd.

When he barreled back, strong arms circling her almost violently, yanking her to the ground, shielding her just as the explosion went off.

Of course the _front_ of him would be fine.

Mouth dry, sweat trickling down her neck, MJ rolls him over. His back is a bloody mess, and god _damn it_ , she should have known. Should have seen the shrapnel protruding from slices in his plaid button-down before it dyed the fabric a sopping, deep red.

MJ swallows a sob. Nurse MJ, back in business. She can't break down, not here, not now. Not when Peter needs her. So even though her face is hot, tears flowing fresh, breathing ragged, she fishes for her pocketknife and methodically slices his shirt open.

It’s impossible to tell if he’s still bleeding, but his healing factor can’t do its fucking job with massive pieces of metal and wood buried so deep. So right there in a grungy alleyway, crouched behind a dumpster under the shadow of a fire escape, she digs out each and every piece of shrapnel from Peter’s broken body.

And with every soft _plink_ of bloody metal hitting grimy, stained concrete, MJ shakes a little harder.

 

* * *

 

 

She uses the shredded remains of his shirt to apply pressure to the wounds. Ideally, she’d dump anesthetic over them in the comfort of her home. Ideally, she’d tuck the Oh Shit Pillow under his head—a fuzzy, stuffed Pikachu head he got her as a joke three years back, when they took her appendix out—and run her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep and she finally started breathing normally.

This isn’t the ideal situation.

She's beginning to think she'll never breathe normally again. Police cars race past, sirens wail, and every sound makes MJ flinch, pull closer to Peter, chanting to _calm the fuck down_ even though it's like telling a pig to sprout wings and fly.

Distantly, she knows she’s reacting… poorly to this. And that’s frustrating as hell. She’s trying so hard to keep a clear mind, focus on Peter, be the level-headed _partner_ she keeps insisting she deserves to be, but nothing here is proving she can handle that. A bomb exploded ten feet from her, and she panicked like everyone else.

Peter reacted. MJ cowered.

She’s still cowering, even an hour later. Hunched over his still form, bloody hands clenched in that blood-soaked shirt, rocking back and forth as her teeth chatter and ice splinters her heart. She feels dizzy, distant, even nauseas after handling the mangled mess of Peter’s back.

Weakness. All of it.

So she bites her cheek so hard it bleeds and forces herself to recount every gruesome detail of the bombs and the aftermath. Someone’s will need to write about it, tell New York what really happened. The Bugle’s going to want a firsthand account. And how _lucky_ they already had a reporter on site?

MJ laughs, just a bit, hollow and angry. And at the sound of it, lying on his stomach with his cheek pressed into the pavement, Peter groans.

Thank god for the little victories.

“That's right. Come on, Pete, you’re okay. Open your eyes,” she whispers, soft and low, peeling the soaked shirt off his back. Her suspicion was right; already, the smaller wounds are closing, inflamed and swollen but no longer bleeding. MJ squeezes his bare shoulder, trying to find relief in that. But really, she’s just numb now. Like she's watching a movie starting Mary Jane Watson, rather than living it. She repeats her mantra past a thick tongue, swollen mouth. “Y-You’re okay.”

“’Course I am. ‘M Spider-Man,” he mumbles, a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm. MJ laughs, and he props his hand on the ground, pushing himself upright. It jostles his wounds, and he hisses at the pain, clenching his eyes shut while he breathes slow and steady a few inches off the pavement.

His breaths are shallow. Too shallow. He’s not fine, even if he’s acting like it, even if he _is_ Spider-Man. But what else can she do? Her first-aid equipment—and she has a _lot_ of it by now—is at her apartment, several blocks from here. She's running through travel plans, desperate, half-formed ones that basically boil down to " _we walk_ ," when Peter glances back at her, eyes fever-bright and worried.

“Are _you_ okay?”

Because of fucking  _course_ he asks that. He’s slurring his words and probably shouldn't even be conscious right now, but of course Peter Parker still thinks to check on her.

That's the difference between them. Even before that spider bit him, Peter put others first. If he’d been conscious in the aftermath of the bombs, he’d have gotten her to safety and jumped back into the square to help everyone else. He’d have guided evacuations and tackled whoever set off the second round of explosions. He’d have stopped the damage and cleared a path for EMTs.

And all that would have happened _without_ his suit.

Instead, it was MJ, and she only helped him. She vaguely recalls the people she passed towing him into that side street: there was a kid, unconscious, being followed by his terrified mother, and a woman staggering around with blood streaming down her face, and a too-still man crumpled against a massive slab of broken concrete. MJ could have checked on all of them.

Except she didn’t.

So, no, she’s not okay. But Peter’s face is ashen and his grip is weak, so she forces a smile and says, “Yeah, of course. I’m Spider-Man’s partner. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

And his resulting grin is so blinding, the lie is almost worthwhile.

 

* * *

  

They walk home, because it's all she can think to do.

It’s a slow process, and even sticking to the backstreets, they raise more than a few eyebrows. He borrows her leather jacket to cover the wounds, but it doesn’t quite fit, and then he’s stumbling through New York modeling bloody jeans, a bare midriff, and a women’s fashion accessory. In any other instance, it’d be comical. She might never let him live it down. 

Today, it doesn't feel that funny.

Finally, _finally_ , she gets him into her apartment, no small feat considering how unstable he is. They haven't talked in an hour, and MJ swears she’s ready to collapse herself. The shaking has stopped, leaving her numb and hot and even more nauseated than before. She pretends it's a physical manifestation of her worry for Peter, but that's another lie. 

She still can't think about it. Not until Peter is safe.

“Sit,” she says, wearily, motioning at the couch.

Peter inches out of her jacket, meticulous motions that have him swallowing gasps with every tug. “It’s— _ah_ —it’s fine. Prolly already healed.”

“Peter,” she deadpans.

He huffs and sinks onto the floor instead. She knows it’s out of courtesy—she’s had to replace bloody couch cushions more than once—but right now it’s another hassle. Her hands feel clammy. Sweat drips down her temples. Her vision spins. It's all ridiculous; _she’s_ not injured, so there’s no reason to be reacting like this.

But it doesn't change the fact that when she retrieves the first-aid kit, then tries to kneel beside Peter, her balance fails and she topples over.

“Woah!” He catches her with a rather unfair reaction time, considering his state. Stupid spider guy with his enhanced _everything_.

“Sorry,” MJ mutters, pushing herself out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”

Too late. He’s looking closer at her now, eyes wide. His hand goes to her forehead, and his touch feels like a live wire. “Wait, are you hurt? I thought—I thought I got the brunt of it, but— _shit_ , did something happen while I was out?” His voice gets progressively more panicked, higher-pitched, which would be comical if he wasn’t panicking about her well-being.

Again.

"Peter."

"Where does it hurt? Never mind, wait, it doesn't matter. You're going to the hospital. Where's your phone? I can have an ambulance here in minutes if we call Yuri—"

“Peter!”

He shuts up.

She feels bad for shouting, but damn it all, she’s fucking _fine_. He’s the one with gaping wounds on his back, for Christ’s sake. Her glare could peel paint, and he shrinks under the brunt of it. "Stop. Stop panicking. I'm _fine_. Okay? No injuries. Just—Just let me take care of this.” She flicks open the first-aid kit, grabbing a thick wad of gauze and drenching it in antiseptic.

But his gaze is too intense, and after a long moment, his eyes widen. “Wait. You’re in shock.”

Well, that’d explain it. And still, MJ feels an irrational surge of anger. Shock is what _other_ people get after trauma. Hell, Spider-Man would never be reduced to a shivering, gasping mess after an incident like this.

Case in point, the fact that Peter has _gaping wounds_ and he’s still talking to her like she’s five years old.

“Drop it, Pete.” She shoves the gauze against his back, almost savagely, but there's no satisfaction in his wheeze of pain. She immediately pulls back, moving into her usual, gentle pressure as she dabs off the dried and oozing blood around his wounds.

Silence again. He lets her clean his back, whispers thanks as she binds his chest in tight white gauze, stares intensely as she snaps the first-aid kit shut.

“I’ll grab your spare set of clothes. Hang on a minute,” MJ says. But before she can push to her feet—she’s not even sure she can, now, with the exhaustion settled so deep in her bones—he catches her shoulders.

“Wait. Let’s… lay down on the couch. Like old times?”

MJ raises an eyebrow.

He hastily backtracks. “Ah, I mean, why don’t _you_ lay down on the couch? I’ll sit here, on the floor, away from you.”

She’d laugh if she couldn’t see right through him. “Peter, I told you. I’m not in shock. I’m fine.”

His tone is uncharacteristically sharp. “No, you’re not. You’re _not_ fine. You need to lie down, MJ.”

Jesus. She just spent fifteen minutes binding him up, and now it’s like _she’s_ the injured one. And even worse, she knows he’s right. She’s not okay either. She needs a blanket, some quiet, maybe some Nyquil. Today hit her hard, and pretending it didn’t isn’t helping anyone.

But Peter already thinks she’s a fragile little flower. Their breakup was explosive and nasty, and she’ll never forget the things he shouted about what she _can_ and _can’t_ do. The picture he painted, where he was Spider-Man, revered superhero, and she...  _wasn’t_.

She swore he’d never make her feel that useless again.

But his expression is so earnest, so worried, that it’s like this Peter Parker and that one are two different people. It’s been a long time, and she really, really missed him. Missed the way they used to cram onto the couch Saturday nights to laugh at SNL. The way he used to text her cryptic clues about their dinner plans, clues that would take her hours to decipher, but he'd still be waiting at the restaurants in a sexy button-down and limp flowers. The way he used to trace her jaw in those quiet evenings, gaze into her eyes and whisper how glad he was that she allowed him into her life.

Even now, everything he does is backed by decades of friendship that has nothing to do with Spider-Man and everything to do with Peter Parker.

He cares about her, even if they aren’t together anymore.

He loves her enough to throw himself in front of a fucking bomb just to protect her.

So, as much as she wants to deny she feels shitty, insist she has more endurance than the superhuman in the room, guilt him into backing off, she... doesn’t. Because today was hard, and something tells her tomorrow’s going to be harder, and all she wants is to curl up next to Peter like old times.

“MJ?” Peter asks, hesitantly. “Please. Lay down?”

It’s not an order. It's a question.

She takes his hand in answer, and they climb to their feet. She’s never felt like like a battle-hardened soldier as much as that moment, muscles groaning and heart heavy. But when Peter frowns, she squeezes his hand and says, softly, “Let’s _both_ lay down.”

Together, they stumble into her bedroom.

 

* * *

  

It’s not until much later, after Peter has fielded calls from Aunt May and Yuri, after the news releases that Officer Davis, the cop that saved Peter’s life, died in the blast, after MJ sleeps for five hours and throws up once and chokes down the barest amount of Peter’s carefully-cooked dinner, that they talk about what happened.

“I’m sorry you were there,” Peter says, perching on the other end of the couch.

MJ is staring blankly at the news channel she’s had on all night. It’s replaying details of the City Hall Attack, they're calling it, and every closed caption digs into her like a dagger to the heart.

She forces herself to watch every second, to wallow in that feeling of despair and anger and uselessness. It’s a kind of punishment, she thinks, for how ridiculously she acted in the face of true danger. If she doesn’t face her shortcomings, she’ll never improve.

But damn if every minute of this news broadcast makes her feel sicker than she has in hours.

Peter traces her gaze, sighs, and turns off the TV.

“Hey,” MJ says, but the word is drained, defeated. “I was watching that.”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. He’s already leaps and bounds better; still bleeding from a few of the deeper wounds, but his skin isn’t ashen anymore, and the shine has returned to his eyes. “I’m… worried about you.”

“What else is new?” she replies, almost curtly.

He flinches, but plows ahead. Brave of him. “MJ. What happened today was horrifying. And—I’m sorry you were there. If I’d known, I would never have let you go.”

“ _Let_ me go?” MJ wants to scream, but restrains herself. The result is clipped speech that strikes him like an ice pick to the face. “I’m sorry, Peter. What part of _this_ ,” she gestures between them, “implies that you have the ability to stop me from doing anything? Maybe we’ve been talking more lately, but you’re not my boyfriend. I shouldn’t need to remind you why.”

He pales, fingers digging into the armrest. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“No, you did,” she snaps.

He clenches his eyes shut, draws a pained breath. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but it’s hard to take that at face value, considering what he’d just apologized for. MJ rolls her eyes. “Too late. Eight months too la—” She cuts herself off.

Peter’s _crying_.

God, isn’t she just an ass? Pressing him, pushing him, when all he wants to do is keep her safe. They had issues, but today was a bad situation made worse by her goddamn pride. She sinks into the couch cushions, clenching her own eyes shut.

“S-Sorry,” he chokes. “MJ, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop the bombs. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help in the aftermath. I’m s-s-sorry that boy’s father died. Officer Davis. _God_ , what did I do—”

He breaks off, shoulders shaking, and MJ realizes with horrifying clarity that none of this is about her. Not really.

Officer Davis was receiving a medal of honor because of the investigation _Spider-Man_ led him on. Without the masked hero, that cop would have perused the exterior of the warehouse, shrugged, and went about his business.

Spider-Man set that night in motion, and all the events that followed it. Of course Peter would think they were his fault.

Including the bombing. And the violent aftermath.

Her anger vanishes as fast as it came. MJ scoots across the couch, pressing into his side, wrapping her arms around his thin, muscular shoulders. “Peter, look at me.”

He does, his gaze bleary and defeated.

She squeezes him, firmly. “None of this is your fault. Okay?”

“It is—”

“No, it’s not,” she says. “You didn’t set off those bombs. You’re the only one trying to _fight_ the asshole who did that. Don’t you see how valuable you are? How necessary?”

Peter’s eyes are rimmed red. “That boy’s not going to have anyone now, MJ. He’s all alone.”

“He’s never alone,” MJ retorts with fervor, and she’s not sure if she’s talking about Davis’ kid or Peter. “His mom is still here. And something tells me he’ll be getting visits from our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Right?”

Peter draws a ragged breath, sagging against her. “R-Right.”

MJ leans her head on his shoulder, staring at the dark TV. “You did everything you were supposed to.” Then, lower, “Which makes one of us.”

Peter intertwines his hand in hers, his voice watery. “What do you mean?”

She almost doesn't want to tell him about the internal anguish she's faced the last few hours. About her absolute failure today, and how it's affecting everything she thought she knew. But he asked, and, well, it might take his mind off that fatherless kid. “I panicked today, Peter.” 

The words are barely a whisper, heavy with the guilt of that truth. 

“Because of me?” he whispers back.

MJ draws a deep breath, staring at her fingers now, intertwined with his. “Partly. But mostly I was... scared."

"Everyone is scared in that situation."

"But that’s not how reporters are supposed to act." MJ clenches her eyes shut again. "I messed up."

"Messed up?” Peter sounds indignant now. “You dragged me to safety. You sent the EMT away. You picked up the slack when I couldn’t. What the heck did you _want_ out of today?”

“Don't. It’s my _job_ to chronicle terrible things. I'm supposed to face danger and come out strong. Not… not panic like everyone else. I have to be _better_ than that.”

Peter swallows. He doesn’t say that she _is_ better, and she appreciates it. Right now, in her state of mind, that kind of comfort would be a bold-faced lie. Instead, he admits, “I get scared too, you know. When someone aims a gun at me, or—or threatens my family, or a situation spirals out of my control. It’s terrifying.”

MJ pulls back, meeting his gaze. He’s never admitted that before. Logically, she knew he got scared, knew that's where his protective nature comes into play. But it's kind of nice, hearing Spider-Man admitting to the same _human_  emotions as the rest of them. Peter's larger than life most of the time. It's why MJ aspires to be like him. But... that's not him. So maybe it's okay if she's not perfect either.

"How do you deal with it?" she asks, softly. 

“My city-renowned sense of humor, mostly." He quirks a grin when she snorts, then turns his gaze towards the ceiling. “And—I don’t know. I try to think of the people relying on me to help. If I break down, they get hurt. And I can’t let that happen."

Those words pierce the cyclone of guilt and frustration that’s been circling her mind since this afternoon. And somehow... it helps. Because she’ll have people relying on her, too. The parents. The soldiers. The rebels. All those interviews that need to be shared, the stories no one’s bothering to tell. Maybe she didn’t do great today, but next time, she won’t have the luxury of panic. She’ll be smack-dab in the chaos for a _reason_ , and her response could change the world.

Peter seems to read her mind. “You’re the strongest person I know, MJ. You can't let one moment define you.”

He's right. She squeezes his hand, still intertwined with hers. “I won’t if you won’t.”

Peter swallows hard. “I’ll try.”

It’s the best they can do.

**Author's Note:**

> This emotionally exhausted me. I think the next fic will be fluffier. I mean, fluffy whump, but still. XD 
> 
> (No timeline on when that'll be written, though. My 2019 goal is to practice digital art, so I'm spending most of my time drawing instead of writing. It's a super weird change of pace. :P )


End file.
